


Désolé pour hier soir

by synchronysymphony



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Partying, SO MUCH ALCOHOL, Siblings Enjolras and Cosette, don't chu do it, don't read this while hungover folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:36:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronysymphony/pseuds/synchronysymphony
Summary: Courfeyrac just wants his friends to drink and be merry.(ECC friendship story~!)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oop I put the "notes" as "summary" rip (fixed it now though)  
> okay anyway so this is based on a weird party that I went to. boy howdyyyyy son it was a Time

This is the third consecutive day that Enjolras hasn’t left the apartment, and Courfeyrac is worried. It’s not like him to stay shut up in one place; he gets restless and cranky if he’s confined to any one spot for too long. Even if he’s caught up in studying (which he’s not; he hasn’t cracked a book since Tuesday), he likes to move around, visit different cafes or libraries so that he won’t “stagnate,” as he puts it. It’s not that Courfeyrac doesn’t like having him around, he definitely does, but it’s worrisome to see him like this. 

At the moment, he’s lying facedown on the couch with a pillow over his head, and if it weren’t for the occasional little groans of anguish he’s making, anyone would think he’s asleep. Courfeyrac looks at him for a moment, then decides he knows exactly what to do. He marches over, snatches up the pillow, wraps his arms around his friend’s skinny waist, and pulls him into a sitting position. 

“Okay, you and me, we need to talk.”

Enjolras pouts at him. He looks disheveled and grumpy and thoroughly unhappy. “Go away.”

“What do you mean, ‘go away’? This is my house too, you little ingrate!”

“Don’t wanna talk. Go away.”

“Too bad.” Enjolras looks like he’s about to lie down again, so Courfeyrac reaches for him and holds on. “This has gone past what is rationally okay. As you said yourself, if we ever catch you sulking about anything so trivial as a boy, we should pick you up and drag you to the nearest hospital.”

“I didn’t say that. Joly said that while he was imitating me.”

“The point still stands. Now, I hate to do this, because you know I’m practically the nicest person on earth, but it’s time for some tough love. Yes, I’m sorry that you fought with Grantaire– again– but you really need to get over it.”

Enjolras makes a wounded noise and looks so impossibly sad that Courfeyrac almost wants to reconsider his approach. Almost.

“If I were being a dick, I would tell you to go confess your feelings,” he says, smiling at the expression of unparalleled alarm that crosses Enjolras’s face at this. “But I’m not a dick. And I think you know that, anyway. So I’m just going to say that I’m sorry he was mean to you and leave it at that. Now, more importantly, it’s Saturday night, and we’re young, stupid, and irresponsible. What do you say we go out and make some poor life decisions?”

Enjolras waves his hand feebly. “I have a paper due on Monday.”

“Which you’re so obviously working on right now.”

“I could be.”

“Or you could not be.” Courfeyrac pokes Enjolras in the tummy until he giggles, despite himself. “Come on, sweetie. Come out with me. You know you want to.”

Enjolras heaves a big sigh like it’s a huge hardship for him to get out of the house and enjoy himself for once (although knowing him, maybe it is). “Fine,” he says. “But I’m not wearing any of those awful outfits that you keep picking out for me.”

Courfeyrac squeals with delight and throws his arms around him. “Awesome! This is awesome! I’m so happy. We’re going to have an amazing time! Come on, let’s go get ready!”

—

Two hours later, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre (who came home just in time to be dragged out with them) are standing in front of their friend Feuilly’s apartment, taking a moment to spruce themselves up before they go inside. Enjolras is indeed wearing an outfit that Courfeyrac picked out for him, and he looks immensely uncomfortable. 

“Do I look weird?” he asks. “Is the crop top too much?”

“You wear crop tops all the time!”

“Yeah, but not with these pants.”

“It looks fine,” interposes Combeferre. “If anything, you should be worried about your hair.”

“Wait what? What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Well, why did you straighten it?”

“Because it was all floofy.”

“Well, okay. But then why did you put it in a side ponytail?”

“It’s vintage!” Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac for help. “Back me up here!”

“Hmm.”

Courfeyrac considers for a bit. Enjolras is wearing a crop top and very tight, low-slung pants, belly piercing on full display. He’s also wearing a choker and dark red lipstick that he probably stole ( _liberated_ ) from Eponine. Overall, his look screams 90s glam rock. Honestly, Enjolras is so pretty that he could probably wear anything he wanted and get away with it, but this in particular, this is a good look for him. Courfeyrac has to congratulate himself on his styling ability.

“I’m good,” he says.

“What?”

At this juncture, the door flies open. Feuilly and Bahorel are standing in the doorframe, looking highly intoxicated. They grin broadly and wave like a set of lucky cat dolls.

“Ayy!”

Courfeyrac spreads his arms wide. “Ayy!”

“G-good evening,” stutters Enjolras. Bahorel grabs him and picks him up.

“Hey, lil’ cutie! Good to see ya!”

“Good to see me. I mean you. Good to see you.”

“Come in! Come in!” Bahorel retreats into the apartment, still carrying Enjolras. Combeferre and Courfeyrac follow closely behind. 

It’s only after Courfeyrac has taken off his shoes and set his bottle of pink moscato on the counter (he’s a polite and well-bred young man, and always-sort-of brings a house gift with him when he goes to an apartment party) that he realizes something’s up.

“Hey,” he says. “Where is everybody?”

“No problem, no problem!” Feuilly throws an arm around his shoulders, friendly and expansive and incredibly loud. This doesn’t really answer the question, though. Courfeyrac loves Feuilly and Bahorel, he really does, but he wants to be at a party tonight, not a two-man drunk show.

“Are they coming?” he asks.

“Hell yeah!”

“We just been pre-gaming,” shouts Bahorel. Enjolras taps him politely on the side of the head.

“Would you mind putting me down?”

“Holy shit! Where’d you come from?”

“You picked me up.”

“Ha! I sure did!” Bahorel kisses him loudly on the cheek. “I’d pick you up anytime, cutie pie. Where did you want me to put you?”

“Um. The floor is fine.”

“So, who’s coming?” Combeferre inquires. He looks even more out of place than Enjolras does, what with his cardigan, round-frame glasses, and nerdy, introverted attitude. Only his best friends know that given the opportunity, he goes the hardest out of all of them. 

“Uh.” Feuilly looks at Bahorel in confusion. “Who’d we invite again?”

“Well now.”

Now Bahorel looks confused. He and Feuilly deliberate for a second, then throw their arms open happily. “It’s a surprise!” they chorus.

Courfeyrac shrugs. He can deal with that. “So!” he says. “Who wants to do shots with me?”

—

Some time later, Courfeyrac is starting to feel a buzz. He’s had a couple shots of tequila, some vodka, and some of Feuilly’s Rumchata, which is probably the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Combeferre is drinking with him, as are Feuilly and Bahorel, but Enjolras is sitting on the couch, typing away on Feuilly’s laptop and mumbling to himself. He seems to be trying to write his paper.

“Ayy!” Feuilly comes and sits down next to him. Immediately, Enjolras straightens up. He has quite the crush on Feuilly, and he obviously wants to impress him. 

“I’m just writing my paper here,” he says.

“What’s it on?”

“Oh, um. Political systems in local areas of rural and non-urban North America.”

“Rural urban. Rurbun. Bourbon… Ooh.” Feuilly grabs hold of him and shakes him lightly. “Let’s go get drunk.”

“But my paper.”

“You’re smart. You can write it drunk.”

“I mean, that’s definitely true, but…”

“We want you!”

“Oh!” Enjolras turns red. He starts fiddling with his hair, pulling strands out of his side pony. “Um, well. If you’re sure.”

“Yay!”

Feuilly tugs him to his feet, only barely waiting for him to save his document and close the laptop, and pulls him over to the counter. Here, Bahorel presses a cup into his hand.

“Drink it!”

“What is it?”

“Tequila with lemon,” says Combeferre, seeing that Bahorel is having trouble. Enjolras takes the cup, but peers down into it suspiciously. 

“Were you the one who made it?”

“Yeah. Come on, drink up. You like Patron.”

“I mean, I do, but I feel like if I drink this, it’ll start me off, and I’ll get totally fucked up tonight. I always do.”

It’s true. Small and slender as he is, Enjolras is quite the lightweight. He never comes home from a party sober unless he makes the conscious effort to stay dry. Then he has to deal with a terrible hangover the next morning. However, today is Saturday, and none of them have class tomorrow, so Courfeyrac nudges him enticingly.

“It’s okay to get fucked up, you know. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for you.”

“You? You’re worse than me.”

“ _I’ll_ watch out for you,” says Combeferre. Enjolras looks a little comforted at this, but then he frowns.

“But ‘Ferre. Don’t you want to drink, too?”

“Yeah, but I do have a higher tolerance than you. And it’s okay, I’d rather be watching out for you anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” Enjolras smiles happily and throws his arms around him, careful not to spill his drink. “I love you, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre ruffles his hair. “I love you, too.”

So cute. Courfeyrac wants in, too. “Wait,” he says. “I’ll drink with you.”

“Okay!”

Enjolras waits until Courfeyrac pours himself a shot. Then he raises his cup, and they clash them together. Fortunately, neither of them are full enough to spill.

“Bottoms up!”

They drink on a count of three. Enjolras looks like he’s trying not to make The Face, but he sort of does anyway. Poor baby. Courfeyrac wants to pour him another drink, but before he can offer, there’s a knock at the door. Bahorel jumps in alarm.

“Who’s that?”

“The others, dumbass.” Feuilly goes to the door and flings it open. “Come in, friends!”

“Hi Feuilly,” comes a sweet, high voice. Now Enjolras is the one looking alarmed.

“Cosette?”

“Enjolras?”

Cosette pushes her way into the apartment, barely stopping to kick off her powder-pink pumps and set her purse on the counter. 

“Hey, Feuilly,” she says, gesturing at a still-startled Enjolras. “Just gotta ask you. What’s my frickin’ brother doing here?”

“Rude!” Enjolras comes over and points at her. “I’ll have you know, I got here first!”

“Well, you could’ve told me you were coming!”

“You could’ve told _me_!”

They glare at each other for half a second. Then, they grin and bump fists. 

“Good to see ya, buddy boy.”

“Likewise.”

Courfeyrac will never fully understand what it’s like to have a sibling (let alone an identical twin). All he knows is that Cosette and Enjolras are two of the weirdest people he’s ever met, and that he loves them both dearly. 

“I’m glad you’re both here,” he says. “Two of my favorite little cupcake duckies in the world!”

“Wow, you’re drunk.”

“Getting there!”

“Um,” comes a shy voice from the doorstep. “Um, sorry to bother you. But can I come in?”

Cosette rolls her eyes. “Yes, Marius. What are you, a vampire?”

Courfeyrac turns to Enjolras, who’s now looking a little ill. “What, so we’re bringing our hookups to parties now? I should have told Jehan.”

“They’re going to bang,” says Enjolras miserably, ignoring him. “My sister is going to bang her Marius. And I’m literally right here.”

“Hey, now.” Courfeyrac puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Maybe they’ll take it easy tonight.”

Enjolras just points. Cosette and Marius are leaning up against the counter, making out passionately. Cosette is grabbing Marius’s ass, and his sweater is halfway off already. Courfeyrac sighs.

“Sorry, buddy.”

Feuilly comes over to Enjolras and bumps him on the back. “You look like you could use another drink.”

Enjolras groans. It’s not as loud as the groans that Marius is making, but it’s close. “Boy, could I.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They play spin-the-bottle in here, and it might be Scandalous. Also, Marius wants to make out with Enjolras and Cosette, and they're related, so be prepared for that.

About half an hour later, everyone’s arrived. Feuilly has a lot of friends, some familiar and some not, and Bahorel’s invited some of his gym buddies, all of whom are huge and muscly and apparently very scary to Enjolras, because he ducks behind Combeferre and refuses to talk to anyone until Cosette gives him a bottle of Jaeger and tells him to chug it. He does, and after about fifteen minutes, he’s sitting on someone’s lap, enthusiastically praising his tattoos.

“And I really like the teardrop under your eye,” he’s saying. “It matches your mustache.”

Courfeyrac is feeling happily buzzed. He leans on the counter, sipping slowly at his mixed drink. What’s in it, he couldn’t say, but it sure does taste nice. Bahorel lounges beside him.

“I’m real’ glad everyone’s enjoying themselves,” he says. 

Courfeyrac raises his cup. “Me too.”

He’s so happy. This is exactly what he needs right now. Drinks, and music, and his beautiful friends, all having fun here, together in this beautiful place. Everyone’s getting along so well, so–

“Aww.” Bahorel points floppily, eyes squinted with affection. “Gueulemer is kissing Enjolras.”

What? Courfeyrac straightens up, ready to fight if necessary. Fortunately, though, he doesn’t have to. The purported kiss is a very chaste one, closed-mouthed and sweet. What a relief. Still, though, it gives him an idea.

“Spin-the-bottle!” he yells, setting his cup down on the counter and waving his arms for attention. “Everyone! Let’s play spin-the-bottle!”

“Ayy!”

Almost immediately, everyone circles up on the floor, cups scattered between them. It’s amazing how well drunk people can communicate when they get the chance to make out with someone. Cosette, though, looks less than pleased.

“I have to watch Enjolras kiss people?”

Enjolras frowns, too. “I have to watch _Cosette_ kiss people?”

“As long as you don’t kiss each other,” says Bahorel happily. Now both twins gag.

“Ew.”

“Can you not?”

Courfeyrac waves his arms again. “No kissing anyone without their consent,” he says. “And no orgies. Or at least, not yet.” Feuilly wiggles his eyebrows. Enjolras blushes. 

“What else?” 

Courfeyrac thinks for a second. Then, he has it. “Okay! In the name of cleanliness, after you have a turn, you gotta take a drink. Sanitize your mouth, you know.”

“That’s a good one,” says Bahorel. “Joly would be proud.”

“And so, without further ado,” resumes Courfeyrac. “Who would like to do the honors?”

“Oldest first!”

“Youngest first!”

“Make Marius do it!”

Combeferre takes the chaos in hand, picking up the bottle and holding it up. “I’ll go.”

“Perfect!”

Enjolras points at him lovingly. “He’s so smart,” he says to no one in particular. “I love him. He’s my smart, amazing friend.” Combeferre pauses his spin to kiss him on the head. He beams like a daisy.

“Love you, ‘Ferre.”

“Love you too.”

“Spin!” Courfeyrac waves his hand up and down, trying to get everyone to chant with him. It mostly works. “Spin! Spin! Spin!”

“Yeah, I’m spinning already!”

Combeferre spins. He’s very good at it, flick of the wrist and all. It twirls for a couple seconds, before finally landing on Feuilly. Feuilly puts a dramatic hand to his heart.

“Me?”

“Come on over, then.” Combeferre leans across the circle to meet Feuilly halfway. They kiss for a little bit, quite calmly and dispassionately. Everyone seems disappointed.

“That was boring,” yells Cosette. “Come on, boys. What do you think this is?”

“Fine.” Feuilly spins the bottle, not quite as well as Combeferre, but decently enough. It lands on Enjolras. Cosette groans.

“I take it back. Please stay boring.”

Enjolras flushes bright red and bites his lip, looking up at Feuilly from half-lidded eyes. He probably doesn’t mean to be quite so alluring, but he is. Even Courfeyrac wants to jump him. 

Feuilly comes over to him and tilts his head up. “Is this okay?”

Enjolras nods, so Feuilly bends down to bring their mouths together. Even just from watching, Courfeyrac can tell that he’s good. By the time they break apart, Enjolras is a blushing, whimpering mess. Bahorel wolf-whistles.

“Damn!”

Feuilly grins and goes back to his spot. Enjolras stays where he is, frozen in shock until Combeferre nudges him. 

“You good?”

“Mnnrrggh.” Enjolras shakes his head as if to clear it, takes a shot, and picks up the bottle. “Okay. I’ma spin.”

“Spin! Spin! Spin!”

Enjolras spins. He has to try twice, but finally he gets it to move, spinning half-heartedly around the circle. Finally, it comes to a stop, right in front of…

“Marius?”

Marius looks up, mouth half-open in amazement. “M-me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Marius crosses the circle and comes over. With every inch, he seems to grow in confidence, until he’s right in front of Enjolras, looking like the very picture of dominance. “C’mere,” he says.

“What?”

Marius hooks his finger into Enjolras’s choker and tugs him forwards. “I said, come _here_.”

“Oh! Marius, I…”

“Hush.” Marius tangles his hand in Enjolras’s hair, pulling it free of its ponytail. He tilts his chin up with the other hand, not gently like Feuilly had, but rough and demanding. “God, you want this, don’t you? You want me? Come on, then. Let me give it to you.”

Without another word of warning, he pulls Enjolras right up against him and kisses him thoroughly. It’s pretty hot, honestly, all sweeping tongue and bitten lips. But then, just as suddenly, he pulls away to trace his finger across Enjolras’s mouth. 

“So pretty,” he purrs. “You should see yourself, Enjolras. You’re just like a little doll. A pretty, needy little doll.” He tugs on Enjolras’s hair, hard. Enjolras moans helplessly. “Yeah, you like that? You want me to take you, have my way with you?”

Courfeyrac can’t believe what he’s seeing. Is this the same awkward, timid Marius? He wonders if he should interfere, since no one else seems to be capable of moving. But really, he doesn’t want to. This is the hottest thing he’s seen for a long time. If Enjolras wants to stop, he thinks, he’ll say so, loudly.

Enjolras isn’t saying anything. He’s looking up at Marius, flushed and glassy-eyed, and totally not in control. Marius smiles a sharp, predatory grin, and pushes him down on the floor, positioning himself implacably on top. 

“Should I take you right here? Right in front of everyone?” He notices Enjolras wiggling, and grabs his wrists, pinning them above his head. With the other hand, he presses down on his throat. “Don’t move,” he says. “You’re just going to lie there and take what I give you. Understand?”

“Holy shit,” breaks in Cosette, shattering the spell. “Marius, what the hell. You can’t fuck my brother. Especially not in front of me.”

“Oh.” Marius looks up (although he doesn’t let go of Enjolras). “Wait. You’re not cool with this?”

“What the fuck? No! No, I’m not!”

“Aww. I thought we could have a threesome.”

“Oh my god.” Cosette drains her drink, then grabs Bahorel’s and gulps that down, too. “Marius, for the love of all that’s holy, I cannot believe…”

Courfeyrac gets up with a murmured excuse. He needs to head to the bathroom and take care of a little problem by himself.

By the time he gets back, the game has broken up. Everyone is still sitting on the floor, though, talking aimlessly. Enjolras is lying with his head on Combeferre’s lap, while Combeferre runs his fingers through his hair and reads to him off of his phone. Courfeyrac comes over and joins them.

“Hey guys,” he says. “What’s going on?”

Combeferre squints at him suspiciously. “Did you just jack off?”

“What makes you think that?”

Enjolras tugs on Combeferre’s shirt. “Keep reading, ‘Ferre!”

“He wanted me to read the news to him,” Combeferre explains briefly, before continuing his monologue. Courfeyrac listens, only half understanding. He likes the news more than any reasonable person should, but right now, he’s so drunk that he’s seeing two Enjolrases in front of him, and it’s kind of hard to concentrate on anything. 

Apparently, Enjolras is following it, though, because he suddenly sits up and grabs hold of Combeferre’s shoulders. “Read that again, ‘Ferre!”

“And thus, Mr. Ken Barson has dropped out of the presidential race,” reads Combeferre obediently. Enjolras squeals, high-pitched and piercing.

“Did you hear that? Did you _hear_ that?”

Before either Courfeyrac or Combeferre can reply, he stands up and starts jumping up and down, waving to get everyone’s attention. 

“Shots!” he shouts. “Barson dropped out! You all have to do shots with me as a celebration!” 

The others stir with interest. “Shots?”

“Shots!” Enjolras confirms.

Well, okay. Courfeyrac isn’t one to turn down… anything, really. He picks up the closest bottle (the amount of alcohol in the house has rapidly decreased through the course of the night, but there’s still enough left for a good time) and waves it in the air.

“Come and get it!”

Everyone lines up except Combeferre, who’s still watching Enjolras closely, and Gueulemer, who murmurs something about staying sober and being the designated driver for that night. Courfeyrac pours them all very liberal shots. Enjolras is right, this is _worth_ a celebration. 

After shots (and second and third shots), everyone is a little more chatty. Enjolras has left Combeferre’s side, and is now badgering one of Bahorel’s friends about their political beliefs.

“You support healthcare reform, right, Irma?” he keeps saying.

It’s a cute scene, but Courfeyrac has a better idea. He’s just chock-full of good ideas when he’s drunk.

“Everyone!” he shouts. Gradually, attention shifts to him. Combeferre gives him a wary look.

“What are you doing now, Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac pats him comfortingly on the head. “Don’t worry. It’s good. Everyone!”

“Everyone!” repeats Enjolras, apparently thinking he’s about to start in on some kind of rallying cry.

Courfeyrac throws a kiss at him. What a cutie. “Everyone!” he shouts again. “Let’s do karaoke!”

“Hell yeah!” screams Bahorel, throwing his cup in the air. Fortunately, it’s empty. Before anyone can protest (not that they would, probably– they’re all drunk enough to accede to anything), he’s turning on his laptop, which is, happily enough, already hooked up to the TV.

“Everyone’s gotta sing,” he says. “And if you mess up, you gotta drink.”

“What’re we singing?” asks Feuilly. “All Star? Bring Me to Life? Wonderwall?”

“Wrong.”

Bahorel pulls up the video, and starts it playing. Within a second, the room is filled with the not-so melodious sounds of Caramelldansen. Courfeyrac groans.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Bahorel points at him. “Sing, friend!”

“I don’t know it!”

“Then you gotta drink.”

Feuilly and Enjolras nod ceremoniously, and pass him a bottle. He looks at Combeferre for help, but Combeferre is enthusiastically singing along to the video, and doesn’t notice. Ah, well. Hazards of the trade. He gulps down a mouthful of what proves to be straight vodka, grimacing as it burns on the way down. He’s always been more a mixed drink person, really.

Enjolras points at him delightedly. “You made the face!”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did! You made it!”

“You did,” confirms Feuilly. 

Courfeyrac sticks out his tongue at both of them (garnering another burst of merriment) and turns his attention back to the others and the TV. 

“What’s next?”

—

Karaoke lasts until someone puts on an old Cascada song, and immediately everyone is getting up to dance. Courfeyrac is more than happy to join. Who can deny the pull of _Everytime We Touch_?

Combeferre races around the room, darting in and out of the happy, drunken revelers, trying to take care of any obstacles that might trip them up. Poor guy. It’s probably tough being the only sober person here. Filled with a sudden rush of affection, Courfeyrac seizes him by the hand, just as he’s endeavoring to move the floor lamp, and pulls him close.

“Dance with me!”

“Oh! But, but,” stammers Combeferre. “The lamp, I gotta move it…”

“No. You gotta move your ass.” Courfeyrac gives him a good, hard spank to show him exactly what he’s talking about. Combeferre squawks.

“Th-that’s inappropriate!”

“Don’t start on me now, you nerd. You love being inappropriate. Remember Joly’s birthday?”

“ _What_? Shut up! I was drunk!”

“Like that’s an excuse.”

“It is!”

“Come on, now. You wouldn’t leave us all alone, would you?”

Combeferre is probably about to say something sassy in reply, and Courfeyrac will be hard-pressed to come up with a good answer to it, but then his face changes, and he points over Courfeyrac’s shoulder in horror.

“What’s _this_?”

Courfeyrac turns and looks. Enjolras is dancing with one of Bahorel’s friends, or rather, he’s being danced with. It’s steamy and inappropriate, and looks like something out of a particularly explicit pay-per-view. 

“Ah yes.” Courfeyrac nods. “They’ve been passing him around for awhile now.”

“ _What_?”

Combeferre twists out of Courfeyrac’s grip and pushes over to Enjolras. He halts the dance with one hand, glaring.

“Hey.”

Enjolras smiles unsteadily up at him. “‘Ferre!”

“Do you want to be dancing like this?” asks Combeferre, somehow managing to not smile back. It must be difficult. Goodness knows Courfeyrac is utterly helpless against Enjolras’s smile.

“Oh!” Enjolras looks around, from his dance partner to Combeferre, and back again. “Did you want to dance, too? We can dance with you.”

“I’ll dance with you, yeah.” Combeferre grabs him and pulls him out of his partner’s grip. He smiles, and goes willingly. 

“You’re going to dance with me, ‘Ferre?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you!”

Enjolras throws his arms around Combeferre’s waist and holds on tight. He looks like a koala. He starts singing softly, his face still smushed into Combeferre’s chest.

“Evacuate the dance floor! I’m infected by the sound! Stop, this beat is killing me~”

He has the cutest little squeaky singing voice, and even though he’s drunk, it’s surprisingly tuneful. Courfeyrac has the sudden desire to sing duets with him. Maybe after everyone’s done dancing, they can go back to singing.

After awhile, everyone gets tired of dancing, too tired and drunk to stay upright, let alone moving. Some of Bahorel’s friends leave (Gueulemer is indeed the designated driver), and Combeferre doesn’t even try to hide his relief.

“They were getting way too handsy with Enjolras,” he says. “I didn’t like the way they were looking at him, either. If they hadn’t left, I would have had to fight them.”

“No, they were nice,” protests Enjolras. Combeferre shakes his head.

“They wanted to have an orgy with you!”

“That’s flattering.”

“No!”

Courfeyrac brings them into the kitchen to have another drink. They look like they could both use it. Seeing this, Marius and Cosette come wandering over.

“What’s up?” asks Cosette. “Are we having a drinking contest?”

“Yeah!”

“No, Enjolras.” Combeferre attempts to take his cup away from him, but he frowns and hangs on tight.

“It’s mine. Get your own.”

Courfeyrac raises his own cup. “I’ll drink with you.”

“Okay!”

Cosette pours shots for everyone, including Combeferre, who shrugs and accepts it. He hasn’t been drinking all night, so this shouldn’t be much of an issue for him. Being the soberest person present, he counts off, and everyone drinks at once. Enjolras and Marius both make The Face. Cosette laughs at them.

“Guys, it’s just tequila.”

“It’s te-killing me,” mumbles Enjolras. Courfeyrac pats him on the back.

“It’s okay. Have another.”

“No, do not have another.” Combeferre procures a water bottle from somewhere and presses it into his hand. “Here. Drink this instead.”

Enjolras looks at the bottle with interest. He tries to open it, but succeeds only in dropping it on his foot. Combeferre picks it up, opens it, and hands it to him.

“There you go.”

“Wow! Thank you!”

While he’s drinking it, Marius sidles over to him, looking him up and down lasciviously. 

“Hey,” he says.

Enjolras stops drinking and smiles at him brightly. “Hi!”

“I like your outfit,” says Marius. “It looks good on you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He loops his finger through one of the belt loops on Enjolras’s pants and pulls him closer. Enjolras goes without a fight.

“You know, your outfit is nice, too. It’s so black.”

“I like black. It expresses the darkness in my heart and my sorrow at the tragedy of man.”

“Are you emo?”

Cosette comes over now, having noticed what’s going on. She sets her cup on the counter, and wraps an arm around Marius’s waist and pulls him away, casual enough that to an outside observer, it would look as if she were jealous. However, Courfeyrac knows she’s really just trying to protect Enjolras. She may like Marius, but there’s nothing stronger than the bond between siblings. If he ever hurt her brother, she would make sure that he paid for it in full.

“What’s up?” she says.

“I’m just talking to Enjolras here,” says Marius. “He’s a pretty little thing, isn’t he?”

“Okay, I have to be real with you, that sounds kind of creepy.”

“Don’t worry, I’m just saying that because he looks like you.”

“Also creepy.”

“We’re identical twins!” says Enjolras, as if this weren’t obvious. Marius sighs dreamily.

“Two of them. Two golden angels.”

He drags Enjolras forward again, this time by the front of his shirt, and traces his knuckle against the side of his face. Cosette doesn’t look happy.

“What are you doing, Marius?”

“Yeah, what are you– oh!”

Marius pulls Enjolras forward and sloppily attempts to kiss him. He tries to get Cosette in on it, too, but she neatly evades him, and grabs Enjolras away for good measure.

“Marius, for fuck’s sake. I told you already, we’re not having a threesome!”

Enjolras looks at him in horror. “Is _that_ what you were trying to do?”

“Well, yeah. It would be my dream come true.”

“Ew.” Enjolras nudges his sister in the ribs. “Why is he like this?”

“Believe me, I wish I knew.”

“Can’t you guys kiss, just once?” pleads Marius. 

“No!”

Courfeyrac feels that he needs to intervene. He likes Marius a lot; he’s a genuinely good guy, decent and upright, though rather problematic at times. It’s sort of understandable (although disgusting) that he wants to get it on with Enjolras and Cosette, since they look so similar, and are so extraordinarily beautiful. If they weren’t related, Courfeyrac would probably be doing the same. As it is, though, this is rather icky, and he wants to save Marius from the foibles of his own drunkenness, so he grabs his arm and pulls him away.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s have another round.”

Cosette turns to Enjolras. “Wanna drink?”

“Please.”

They pour shots and begin to drink, following the path of the ancients and drowning their sorrows in vodka. Meanwhile, Marius has entered the lamentable crying stage of inebriation. 

“I just, I can’t,” he blubbers, hanging onto Courfeyrac’s hand. “They’re both so beautiful, I can’t.”

Courfeyrac nods kindly. “Let it out.”

“So pretty, so– _beautiful_. And, and. They’re like, like opposites, you know? Like Enjolras is so submissive, and Cosette likes to dominate me, and she has a strap-on, and sometimes she likes to tie me up, and…”

“You’re probably going to regret telling me this,” says Courfeyrac.

Marius dissolves into tears, and sits down on the kitchen floor, apparently too emotional to continue standing. Courfeyrac leaves him alone. He knows how it can be.

—

By about 3:30, everyone has gone to sleep. Cosette and Marius have disappeared down the hallway, and Courfeyrac has a pretty good idea of what they’re doing, but he’s trying not to think about it. Bahorel has collected some of the extra people and deposited them in the spare room, leaving them all snoring peacefully on a pile of blankets, but now he, too, is passed out on the couch, and Feuilly is lying on top of him, though whether or not that’s intentional is anyone’s guess. Combeferre is running around trying to distribute water and plastic bags.

“Please keep this,” he’s saying. “You’re going to wake up and throw up in the night, and I know you won’t make it all the way to the bathroom. Please!”

“Don’t want it,” moans Feuilly, batting it away.

“You’ll want it later!”

Courfeyrac isn’t feeling so wonderful himself. All the tequila in his stomach is threatening to make a reappearance, even though he’s trying hard to keep it down. Probably it’s a vain effort, but he’s doing his best. It’s not often that he gets to party with Enjolras, and he wants to impress him. 

Although, Enjolras is hardly in any better shape. He’s lying on the floor, curled up into a little ball and mumbling to himself. Courfeyrac catches snatches of words like _stock exchange_ , _institutionalized discrimination_ , and _potatoes_ (Enjolras is very passionate about potatoes). He’s probably not going to notice if Courfeyrac runs off to the bathroom to–

–Yup, there it is. For the next five minutes, Courfeyrac’s mind is focused on nothing but the inside of the toilet bowl. 

When he gets back from the bathroom, Combeferre has taken a break from his errand of mercy, and is kneeling beside Enjolras on the floor.

“Come on, you need water,” he’s saying. “You need to drink this.”

“Yes,” agrees Enjolras, then rolls over to face away from Combeferre. 

Courfeyrac comes over, congratulating himself on his ability to walk. Or, maybe he’s crawling, now that he thinks about it. Well, that’s good, too.

“Drink water,” he says.

Combeferre looks at him. “Are you telling him? Or yourself?”

“Both?”

“Okay.” Combeferre rolls Enjolras over again and sticks the glass of water in his face. “Come on. Drink this up.”

“Okay,” says Enjolras agreeably. Then he nestles down and closes his eyes, smiling in angelic bliss. “I’m’ sleep here.”

“No.” Combeferre is inexorable. He sits Enjolras up and puts the straw in his mouth. “Drink.”

Enjolras does. He’s remarkably nice and obedient when he’s drunk, sort of like a sweet, docile little kitten. It makes it easier to take care of him, since he’ll willingly go along with whatever is asked of him, discounting, of course, his level of incapacitation. If only more people were like him. 

Courfeyrac is seized by a wave of affection for his little Enjolras. He throws his arms around him, trying to express all the love in his heart for his tiniest friend, his sweet little sunshine, his itty-bitty honeybee. So small, so precious.

“I love you so much,” he sobs. 

Enjolras kisses him on the nose, somewhat off-center in his aim, but very enthusiastic. “Courfeyrac! You’re a… a _good citizen_!”

“Enjolras!”

Courfeyrac can’t say anything else. He’s too emotional. There’s so much love in him, he can’t keep it all in. It’s all pouring out of him, out of his very pores. (Is that where the word pore comes from?) He just loves Enjolras _so much_. He wants to take care of him, protect him from everything sad and bad in this world.

“I want to put you in my pocket,” he says.

Enjolras begins to cry. He clings onto Courfeyrac’s shirt with his tiny little hands and holds on tight. “Courfeyrac! I love you a lot! You know? I just, I really– I do!”

Now they’re both clutching each other and crying. Combeferre looks at them in bewilderment. 

“Guys, are you okay?”

“Oh!”

Enjolras lets go of Courfeyrac and clumsily manages to climb onto Combeferre’s lap. He tries to put his arms around his neck, but fails, and just ends up head-butting him until he gets a hug.

“‘Ferre! I love you, too! I’m sorry I didn’t say it before. But you went gone, you know?”

Combeferre pats him on the head. “I know. It’s okay.”

“You dis-disappeared-ed. That’s so hard to say. But I love you, ‘Ferre. You’re good.”

“You’re good, too.”

This proves to be too much for Enjolras. He dissolves into tears, weeping incoherently for a solid minute, while Combeferre hugs him and kisses him and tries to calm him down. Eventually, once he gets a semblance of control over himself, he starts babbling about how much he loves Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and how they’re his best friends, and how he’s so happy that they’re in his life. He probably has more to say, too, but Courfeyrac doesn’t hear it, because at this point, he needs to run off to the bathroom to throw up.

As soon as he gets back, Enjolras takes his turn, and goes stumbling off down the hallway. Poor baby. He’s so little; he must be feeling truly awful. Someone should probably stay up with him and make sure he’s okay.

He’s gone for so long that Courfeyrac is already half-asleep by the time he comes back. Combeferre has found blankets and pillows from somewhere, and has made a bed for them on the floor. It’s so comfortable. Courfeyrac never wants to get up. He’s just going to lie here and be at peace for all eternity, or at least until he’s finished sleeping off the hangover he’s going to have tomorrow.

He rests peacefully until Enjolras comes over and curls up at his side. He tries to nudge his way underneath Courfeyrac’s arm, and usually Courfeyrac would be more than okay with this, but suddenly he’s struck with an urgent thought.

“Enjolras! Sit up!”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Sit up! Your hair!”

Enjolras sits up. “What about my hair?”

“I need to braid it.”

Enjolras looks confused, but he turns around and presents the back of his head. “Braid is a funny word,” he says. “It sounds like bread. Bread. Say it, Courfeyrac.”

“Bread.”

“Say it, ‘Ferre.”

“Bread.”

Enjolras coos in pleasure. He clasps his hands together, too. “I want to give bread to everyone. Everyone! Do you think I can?”

“You can.” Combeferre pats him on the head, chuckling when he tilts his head up to bump his hand with his nose. “I believe in you.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Enjolras sniffles. He’s probably about to start crying again. Courfeyrac can’t really blame him; this is an emotional moment, and one that’s definitely deserving of a few tears. But he’s not paying that much attention himself, because he’s absorbed in braiding Enjolras’s lovely, shiny, honey-gold hair. It’s so soft and silky, not too fine and not too thick, and even straightened as it is, there’s still a little natural waviness at the tips. It’s perfect. Courfeyrac wants to hug it.

Enjolras stirs, shaken out of his emotion. “Courfeyrac, are you kissing my head?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, okay!”

It doesn’t take nearly long enough, but soon Courfeyrac has styled Enjolras’s hair into a fishtail braid. At least, it mostly looks like a fishtail braid. Some of the strands started blurring together after awhile. Courfeyrac reaches around Enjolras to poke at his wrist.

“Hair tie!”

“Don’t have one.”

“What? I thought you did!”

“I gave it to Irma. She was going to throw up.”

Courfeyrac sits back. Now what’s he going to do? He lets his head loll to the side (it’s hard to keep it upright) and starts to yodel in his throat. 

“Wha-a-a-t will I do-o-o~?”

Combeferre nudges him. “Stop that.”

“But wha-a-A-A-A-T will we D-O-O-O~?”

“Oh my god.”

“What will we do?” echoes Enjolras, though more quietly. Combeferre gets up and goes over to the kitchen. 

“Hold on a second.”

“Where are you going?” Enjolras turns around, disrupting Courfeyrac’s grip on his braid. “Courfeyrac! Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know. Combeferre! Where are you going?”

“I’m getting a hair tie.”

“He’s getting a hair tie?” Enjolras turns around to look at Courfeyrac, eyes wide and starry and shining in amazement. “But there aren’t any, you know. ‘Ferre is so wonderful! He can do anything!”

“I love drunk people,” mutters Combeferre, probably thinking that no one can hear him. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), Enjolras does. 

“We’re a drunk people! ‘Ferre! Do you love us?”

“I do. I love you both.”

“He loves us!” Enjolras grabs at Courfeyrac’s hand, more or less successfully squeezing it. “Did you hear that? He said he loves us!”

“Of course he loves us. We’re us.”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t love you guys?” Combeferre comes back over and sits down. “Here. Give me your hair, Enjolras.”

“Okay!”

Enjolras shoves his mass of blond tresses in Combeferre’s direction. It seems to have come a bit undone, somehow, but Combeferre just tuts kindly and re-braids it, tying it off with what appears to be a kitchen rubber band. Who would have ever thought of that? Combeferre is really so smart.

“You should get like a Ph MA,” says Courfeyrac. “Like, doctorate. But masters. Like, a lot of them.”

“The day they invent that is the day I can die a happy man,” agrees Combeferre solemnly. He gently pushes Enjolras down onto the bed pile and covers him with the blanket. “Go to sleep, okay?”

“Stay here, please” mumbles Enjolras. His eyes are already closed. Combeferre kisses his forehead.

“Okay. I’m here.”

“Me too!” Courfeyrac lies down and flaps his hand at Combeferre to get his attention. “Tuck me in, too!”

“When did I get to be the mom in this relationship,” says Combeferre, which Courfeyrac thinks is a little funny because _obviously_ Combeferre is a dad friend, but he goes along with it, because he really wants a goodnight kiss. 

“Tuck me in!”

“You’re an actual child.”

“You’re a dad. And I’m drunk.”

“Well, you definitely are that.” Combeferre tucks him in next to Enjolras, pausing to smile sweetly at the little blond (already dead to the world) and smooth his bangs away from his face. “Cutie. I hope you’re sleeping well. I love you so much, pumpkin.”

Courfeyrac isn’t jealous, but he does want his share of the affection, especially since Enjolras isn’t even awake to appreciate it. He tries to do a softer version of the yodel.

“‘Ferre! Kiss me, too!”

“Hush. You’ll wake him.”

“No, I won’t,” argues Courfeyrac, just to be stubborn. As if in direct opposition to this, Enjolras stirs, whining like an unhappy kitten. Combeferre hastens to cluck at him and soothe him back to sleep.

“Now will you hush?” he asks, once Enjolras is snoozing sweetly once again, curled up with his arms full of blanket. Courfeyrac nods. 

“I’m hush.”

“Good.”

Combeferre kisses him on the forehead, tucks him in, and then, because he’s himself, puts several plastic bags and water bottles next to him. He probably has ibuprofen, too, but that’s for tomorrow. He’s such a good friend. Courfeyrac cuddles up to Enjolras, buries his face in the juncture of sweet-smelling hair and soft, milky neck, and happily drifts off to sleep, knowing that this is his very favorite time and place, ever.


	3. Chapter 3

Courfeyrac has weird drunk dreams, but they’re not why he wakes up early the next morning. No, he wakes up early the next morning because he needs to go and puke his guts out. It’s rather unpleasant, and not exactly the stirring reveille he was hoping for.

He makes so much noise (unintentionally) that the others are stirring by the time he comes back from the bathroom. Cosette has emerged, glaring furiously at everyone, Bahorel is doing literal jumping jacks in the kitchen, and Combeferre is being beleaguered by a very hungover Feuilly, who seems to believe that he can make the sun go back down. Marius is nowhere to be seen, but judging from the hideous retching sounds coming from the bedroom, he’s not far away. Only Enjolras is still asleep, wrapped up in a ball of blankets on the living room floor. A tuft of golden hair is poking out, like the top of a carrot. It’s so cute.

Courfeyrac goes over to him and tries to shake him awake. “Up and at ‘em!”

“No,” grumbles Enjolras sleepily. “I’m dead. Go away.”

“You’re not dead. You’re just hungover. Come on, get up. We can get breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, orange juice–”

“Ugh.” Enjolras pops out of his blankets and goes running towards the bathroom, faster than Courfeyrac would have believed was possible. It takes quite a few minutes before he comes back. 

In the meantime, Combeferre gives water bottles and ibuprofen to everyone. He’s so put-together, it’s nauseating. Courfeyrac groans at him when he makes his way over (though he does take the offerings he brings).

“How are you so _normal_ on this morning from hell?”

“Well, I’m not hungover,” says Combeferre mildly. Courfeyrac flips him off.

“Gloat about it, why don’t you?”

“I will, thanks. Sure is nice. Don’t you wish you were healthy, like me?”

“Shut your fuck.”

Enjolras comes back at this juncture. He’s taking very small steps, as if he’s afraid he’ll fall over otherwise. Maybe he will. Certainly, he’s seen better days. He crawls back under the blankets and pulls them over his head.

“Leave me here,” he says.

Combeferre pulls the blankets off halfway. “We’re not leaving you here.”

“No. Leave me to die.”

“Come on, wouldn’t you rather be over-dramatic at home?”

“No. You go home.”

“Okay, fine.” Combeferre replaces the blankets, patting the place where Enjolras’s head probably is, and eliciting a half-pleased hum. “We could all probably deal with some menudo, anyway. Do you guys want some?”

“I could use some. Here.” Cosette tosses her purse at him, raising her eyebrows in begrudging awe when he catches it. “Get me some Gatorade, too. The yellow one.”

“Okay. Should I get something for Marius?”

“Nah. Let him lie sick in his own idiocy.”

Of course, this means that she feels bad for him and wants to help, though she’s too grumpy to say so. Combeferre probably knows this, because he knows everything, but Courfeyrac waves him over just to make sure.

“You’ll get him the same thing you’re getting me?”

“Of course.” Combeferre smiles and ruffles his hair, just carelessly enough that it’s clear he doesn’t know what it’s like to have a tequila headache. Then, he lifts the blankets off of Enjolras again, and shakes him slightly. “Hey, sunshine. Do you need anything?”

“Gatorade and ibuprofen. And a new head.” 

“I’ll do my best,” says Combeferre, solemn. He puts the blankets back and stands up. “Anyone else?”

“Chicken ginseng soup,” says Feuilly.

“And a double cheeseburger, onion fries, and a whiskey sour,” adds Bahorel, probably just to be a dick. Everyone groans in unison. 

“Shut up.”

Combeferre grabs his keys and wallet from the counter, though he also has a tight hold on Cosette’s purse, so it’s doubtful how much of this delivery is going to come from his own funds. He puts on his shoes and opens the door, stopping to wave cheerily to everyone.

“I’ll be back soon. Have fun being hungover!”

“It’s not funny,” says Courfeyrac, but Combeferre just tips his glasses to him. Someone needs to tell him that this isn’t a real thing that people do.

“Take care of yourselves!” 

He leaves, thankfully closing the door quietly on the way out. Within a couple seconds, though, he’s sticking his head back in. “Don’t bother Enjolras, okay? And make sure he’s all right. Okay, bye!” And with this, he’s gone again.

“Need me a love like that,” says Bahorel to the closing door.

Courfeyrac doesn’t bother to agree. Instead, he crawls over to the pile of blankets and tucks himself inside. As long as Combeferre is gone, he might as well get some more rest, right? He wraps his arms around Enjolras, teddy bear-style, and drops off immediately.

He’s rudely awakened in an annoyingly short amount of time when Feuilly pulls the blankets off him and sticks a bottle of Gatorade in his face.

“Here, my young paladin. Take this elixir. It will restore your health and grant you the boon of youth and wisdom.”

Courfeyrac looks at him blearily. “What?”

“Drink the damn electrolytes.”

Damn electrolytes never tasted so good. Courfeyrac drains a quarter of the bottle at one go. He thinks he could conquer nations with this strength– or at least stop throwing up long enough to get home, which, in the grand scheme of things, really comes out to the same thing. 

“What is this?” he asks.

“Lemon pepino!” Feuilly points at the wrapper on the bottle, which says neither of these things. “See? It’s green. Like a melon.”

“Pepino means cucumber.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t have an answer for that. He reaches under the covers and picks up Enjolras. “Here,” he says. “Pepino.”

“Meme,” replies Enjolras drowsily, and this really makes no sense, but he’s said weirder things even while fully lucid, so Courfeyrac isn’t worried. He tries to get him into a sitting position, which is hard because he’s decidedly floppy.

“Come on. Drink this. It will make your day.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Me too,” adds Feuilly.

Why are they awake again? Courfeyrac decides to take a little nap. He goes to lie down, but before he can, Combeferre is gripping him by the shoulder. 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Courfeyrac argues. “Don’t make this difficult.”

“That’s my line, you prick!”

“Prick means penis,” explains Feuilly helpfully. Then he lies down on top of the blanket and starts snoring. Enjolras points at him.

“He stole my bed!”

“That’s not your bed.”

“It was. I was sleeping on it. And possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Okay, well, why don’t we go back to our apartment that we ten-tenths possess? And then you can sleep as much as you want.”

“Oh.” Enjolras considers this for a minute. Then he nods. “Okay. But you have to eat your menudo. So you eat it, and I’ll sleep. And then we’ll go, and I’ll sleep more. Good plan.”

“Did you just say ‘good plan’ to yourself?”

“Yeah. Someone has to.”

There’s no arguing with this. Courfeyrac hauls himself up (though truth to be told, he relies on Combeferre’s strength much more than his own) and manages to get over to the table, where a bowl of fresh, hot menudo is ready and waiting for him. Bahorel and Cosette are already there, chowing away, and Marius is lying on the floor at their feet and groaning occasionally. Neither of them seem to be taking much notice of him.

“Eat the menudo,” says Bahorel. “It’s good for you.”

“Helps,” says Cosette, much more tersely. She lifts a forkful to her mouth, not breaking eye contact the entire time.

Courfeyrac comes and sits down at the table across from her. She’s a force to be reckoned with even at the best of times, but right now, she’s downright frightening. There must be something about the Fauchelevent family, maybe a magic bloodline or something. Angry Enjolras is bad enough, but angry Cosette– no. Courfeyrac never wants to see that.

They all eat their menudo more or less in silence. Occasionally, Bahorel will say something, or Feuilly will mumble a rude word in his sleep, but for the most part, they all just focus on recovering. Courfeyrac gradually feels his strength returning as he eats his menudo and slurps down two bottles of Gatorade. Nectar and ambrosia be fucked– this is the food of the gods.

When everyone is done eating, and Marius and Feuilly have arisen from their slumber and choked down some health food, Combeferre starts making noise about leaving soon.

“It’s already past one,” he says. “We need to get home so we can work on our homework. I have a lab due tomorrow, and I know Enjolras has a paper.”

“Oh shit.” Cosette grabs Marius and drags him off the floor. “Come on, babe. We need to go. I just realized I have a research proposal that I haven’t even started.”

“I’ll propose to you,” says Marius.

“You better fuckin’ not.”

Marius wilts. “Okay.”

Courfeyrac still can’t tell how Cosette really feels about Marius. She seems to like him well enough, but she also doesn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to enter a committed relationship with him. This might be because she’s busy, or because they’ve both had relationship issues in the past, or maybe because he hits on her brother at every possible opportunity. It’s hard to tell. At any rate, they’re clearly tied together, so Courfeyrac wouldn’t disrupt the balance by flirting with either of them, even though he totally would if he were given the chance. 

As Cosette and Marius gather up their belongings and head out, Combeferre goes over to the blanket pile and tries to rouse Enjolras, unsuccessfully, because Enjolras definitely doesn’t want to be woken up. He groans and rolls over and ignores Combeferre when he tries to shake him.

“Come on,” Combeferre says, attempting to pull the covers off his head. “You know, you have a paper due, don’t you? You need to go home and finish it.”

His only answer is a sort of anguished mumble. Courfeyrac decides to lend his aid.

“Hey, Enjolras,” he says. “We need to go home. Feuilly probably wouldn’t like it if you slept on his floor all day.”

For a second, there’s no response. Then, Enjolras slowly emerges from the blanket cave, tousled and flushed and looking like a peevish dandelion.

“Feuilly wants me to go?”

“No, you can stay as long as you want,” says Feuilly affably and unhelpfully. Courfeyrac puts a finger to his lips.

“Shush.”

“We should go before we wear out our welcome,” says Combeferre, having caught onto the tack. Fortunately, Feuilly keeps his mouth shut this time. Enjolras rubs his eyes and makes a sort of whirring sound, like a computer booting up. Finally, he holds up his arms.

“Pick me up.”

“What are you, a baby? Pick yourself up.”

“I’m hungover.”

“I’m hungover too, you butt!”

“Here, I’ll do it.” Combeferre reaches over and picks him up, and he makes a happy sound and nestles down in his arms contentedly.

“Love you, ‘Ferre.”

“Love you too, baby.”

“Are you guys heading out?” asks Bahorel, much too loudly for the situation. Courfeyrac winces.

“Dude, can you keep your voice down?”

“Oh, sorry! Just kinda comes natural, ya know!”

“Shut _up_!”

Before they leave, Feuilly and Bahorel give them party bags to take with them. They contain such staples as travel-sized bottles of vodka, socks, and condoms. Courfeyrac’s also has a jar of pickle relish. Enjolras takes his and refuses to let go of it, even though he can’t seem to hold on very well, and has to loop the handle over his arm. 

“Thank you so much,” he says. “You guys are so nice. So beautiful and nice. I love you.”

“Emotional lil’ dumpling, ain’t he?” asks Bahorel conversationally. Courfeyrac smiles and nods. This is one of the things he loves about his sweet little friend.

“I’m happy we all got a chance to party together,” he says.

Bahorel and Feuilly nod their agreement. “We really need to do this more often.”

Enjolras falls asleep on the way back down to the car. He’s still clutching his party bag, though, and Courfeyrac can’t wrest it from him, so they just put him in the backseat and drape his arm onto the floor so it won’t get in his face and disturb him. He’s going to have pins and needles when he wakes up, but given how much discomfort he’s in, it probably won’t bother him too much. 

It takes way too long to get home. Combeferre tries to drive carefully, or at least he says he does, but every time he shifts, Courfeyrac feels his stomach get that much closer to falling out. By the time they reach their apartment, he feels almost as bad as Enjolras looks. He leaves his party bag in the car– he can get it later– and stumbles to the door. Hopefully, Combeferre can take care of waking up Enjolras and bringing him over, because it’s all Courfeyrac can do to climb the stairs.

As soon as he gets inside, Courfeyrac throws off his shoes and heads straight for his bed. He can shower later, and maybe eat something, and hopefully do some schoolwork, but for now, all he wants to do is sleep. Once he starts feeling like an actual human being again, he can worry about doing what he needs to do. Right now, though, he needs to flop. Vaguely, he’s aware of Combeferre and Enjolras coming in, and someone starting the shower. That’s so nice. They’re so responsible. Once he wakes up, he’ll make sure to do the same. He can’t be the gross one in the squad, after all. He closes his eyes, and within a minute, he’s asleep. 

Four hours later, he wakes up, starving. His hangover’s mostly gone now, though there’s a bit of a residual pounding lingering in his temples, and his legs still feel a little bit jellified. It’s not so bad, though. He could (and would) go to lecture in this state if he had to. 

He showers and changes clothes quickly, wanting to sit down and get some food before he worries about anything else. Fortunately, miraculously, when he goes out to the kitchen, Combeferre is already there, humming to himself and stirring a saucepan on the stove. Courfeyrac has no idea what he’s making, but it smells delicious.

“Morning,” he says. “Or, afternoon.”

“Evening?” supplies Combeferre, looking up from his pan with a smile. 

Courfeyrac’s too hungry for semantics. He comes over to the stove and sticks his nose into the jet of fragrant steam coming out of the saucepan. 

“What’s this?”

“Pepper stir-fry. I figure you guys could use something healthy right about now.”

“You’re a saint. I love you, and I hope you receive all the blessings of life.”

“Aww, thanks. I hope so, too.”

“No, no!” Courfeyrac shakes his finger admonishingly. “You’re supposed to say that you already have all the blessings of life because you have us! Come on, now!”

“Oh, my mistake.”

Combeferre dishes Courfeyrac up a dish of stir-fry. He makes him sit at the table to eat it, like he’s some kind of functional human being or something, and he insists on reading to him from his global politics textbook while he eats, though this is probably less because of benevolence and more because Combeferre genuinely thinks global politics is an interesting subject. It’s a pleasant evening, though. Courfeyrac really feels sorry for anyone who doesn’t have a Combeferre in their life.

At around half-past seven, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are curled up on the couch, watching the news. It’s pleasant, and Courfeyrac might be about to go to sleep, but all of a sudden, there’s a shriek from the bedroom, and Enjolras comes running out, eyes wild and hair askew.

“My paper!”

Courfeyrac is a little out of it still, so he sits up in half-way alarm. “Your paper?”

“My paper! I forgot to turn it in!” Enjolras grabs at his hair and tears at it in distress. “I’m going to fail! How could I have forgotten this?”

Combeferre raises a finger to his lips. Somehow, it’s sweet instead of condescending. He beckons Enjolras over with a calm hand, only a slightly curved lip revealing his true feelings. “Enjolras. It’s Sunday.”

“What?”

“It’s Sunday. Your paper isn’t due yet.”

“But! The due date got moved up! And the professor doubled the amount of points it’s worth, and aliens…” Enjolras stops, finger on his chin in consideration. “Ah. It was a dream.”

“There you go.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Enjolras flops down onto the couch and worms his way under Combeferre’s arm. He points at Courfeyrac with a graceful hand. “Get me my laptop?”

“What? No! Get it yourself!”

“But you’re closer.”

“No, I’m not. Stop being so lazy.”

“I’m not lazy! I’m delegating you to a task in order to use all of your good resources that I don’t have myself. It’s just efficiency.”

“Efficient for you, maybe,” grumbles Courfeyrac, but he does reach over onto the table and grab Enjolras’s laptop for him. It’s one of those tiny thin ones, so it’s not too much of a struggle. He pretends it is, though, groaning and shaking out his wrist like he’s going through agonies. Neither of his friends seem very sympathetic. Combeferre smiles benevolently at him from under his glasses, and Enjolras blows him a kiss.

“Thank you, Courfeyrac!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He’s such a cutie, though, so Courfeyrac lets him curl up on him and use him as a cushion while he writes his paper. He’s relaxed and happy and practically purring in comfort, and Courfeyrac would never have it in him to disrupt such a display of contentment.

Although, it might be too much contentment. After only fifteen minutes of writing, Enjolras’s head begins to droop. He tries valiantly to keep typing, but soon, his head falls to the side, and he’s dozing against Combeferre’s shoulder. Courfeyrac can’t help but smile.

“Aww. Someone’s tired.”

“I’ll fight you,” Enjolras mumbles in his sleep. It’s probably not in response to Courfeyrac’s comment, since it’s the sort of thing Enjolras says on a daily basis, but Combeferre laughs at him anyway.

“You better watch out.”

“Oh, hush.”

They let Enjolras sleep for a few minutes more, but finally responsible Combeferre shifts and shakes him. 

“Come on. Up with you.”

“Mm. No.”

“You need to finish your paper.”

“Oh!” Enjolras sits up, shakes his head as if to clear the fog away, and sets to writing again. After a few sentences, he looks up. “Guys! If I start falling asleep, will you stop me?”

“Sure,” says Courfeyrac. “After I go through your paper and replace every instance of the word ‘political’ with the word ‘ass.’”

Enjolras looks at him in horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” says Combeferre. “I mean, come on. Those aren’t even the same part of speech. At least use another adjective.”

“I have some adjectives I could use to describe you,” says Enjolras snippily. Courfeyrac catches him in a headlock and noogies him, laughing when he yowls at the indignity of it.

“You love us! You love us and you know it!”

“I’ll kick your political ass.”

“As if you could, tiny bean.”

Combeferre pulls them apart, but he’s laughing too hard to remonstrate with either of them. Wordlessly, he points at Enjolras’s laptop. Courfeyrac knows how to translate that– he’s pretty good at speaking Combeferre.

“Write,” he says.

Enjolras sticks his lower lip out, obviously annoyed at being told what to do, but he starts typing away again. He really writes fast when he has a mind to. Before too long, an entire paragraph has appeared. Not too long after, though, he’s listing to one side again, as if he’s a particularly top-heavy bobble-head. 

“I’m just gonna close my eyes to think about this,” he mumbles.

“Oh, no you don’t. I know that game.” Combeferre shakes him lightly, though he gets more insistent when he continues not to respond. “Come on, get up. You need to finish this.”

“I am finishing it. I’m just thinking.”

“That’d be the day,” says Courfeyrac, just to get a reaction. Sure enough, Enjolras swats at him.

“You can fight me.”

“You’re so feisty. Don’t you think you should channel that energy into your paper instead?”

“I can multi-task.”

“I’m going to get you something to eat,” interposes Combeferre. “You can eat with one hand and type with the other. Yeah?”

“I’m not hungry, though.”

“Well, you should be. You haven’t eaten in like 48 hours.”

“Food is a bourgeoisie concept, and a sign of the inequality still present in this world.”

“Yes, and you need it to live.” Combeferre goes over to the stove and dishes up a bowl of stir-fry and rice. He even puts soy sauce on it, which is more than he’d done for Courfeyrac. “Here,” he says, coming back over to the couch and sticking the bowl under Enjolras’s nose, “I made this for you. So eat it.”

“You made it for me?” Enjolras looks way too touched. Courfeyrac wonders if he’s going to cry again.

“He made it for me,” he says. “You’re just getting the leftovers.”

“I’ll show you leftovers.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Okay, you know what? I’m very tired, and I didn’t condition my hair, and I slept on it while it was wet, and my eyes feel all weird, so I think I have an excuse to not make sense. You know?”

“Really? Because I think your professor would argue with that.”

Enjolras holds up his fork menacingly. “I will stab you in the butt.”

“Okay, okay,” says Combeferre. “Don’t stab his butt. He needs it. Just eat your food and write your paper and soon you’ll be done.”

“I will never be done,” says Enjolras dramatically, but he does turn back to his laptop and take up writing again. He doesn’t eat, though, so after a bit, Combeferre pries the fork out of his hands, stabs a chunk of pepper, and holds it up to his mouth.

“Here. Eat this.”

Enjolras opens his mouth and eats the pepper, seemingly before he realizes what he’s doing. Then he looks up, his face a picture of indignation.

“You just _fed_ me!”

“I mean, would you rather have Courfeyrac do it?”

“I’ll do it,” says Courfeyrac, feeling that he really deserves a reward for his nobility. “Don’t worry, Enjolras. I’ll take care of you.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to reply (or more likely, curse him out), and Combeferre stuffs another forkful of food inside. Raised polite from birth as he is, Enjolras takes the time to swallow before growling at them both. He may threaten to stab people’s butts, but merciful heavens, he draws the line at talking with his mouth full.

“I’ll eat it,” he says. “You’re just too impatie–“

Combeferre puts another forkful of food in his mouth. “Nope. Eat now.”

“Fine.” Enjolras snatches the bowl back. He’s pouting now. Courfeyrac wants to tell him to take a nap, except this is the last thing he should be doing. Food first, then paper, and then, finally, sleep. That’s the way it goes. 

It takes awhile, but Enjolras does manage to eat most of his food and drink the bottle of Gatorade that Combeferre gives him. He looks a little happier afterwards, and snuggles back down to write his paper without another word of complaint. Now that he’s back to himself, more or less, he’s ready to write with a vengeance.

It’s entertaining to watch him work, and Courfeyrac has taken this class before, so he sits and pets him and observes and (mostly) refrains from making editorial suggestions. Combeferre sits on the other side, nose buried in some weird book about aliens, but he nudges Enjolras whenever he starts drooping, so his head can’t be that far up in space. 

With both of them offering their assistance in this way, Enjolras finishes his paper in record time. It’s perhaps not the best thing he’s ever written, but even the worst paper by Enjolras is worth more than the best from someone else, so Courfeyrac and Combeferre just proofread it quickly, fix a couple of citation errors (Enjolras has always been impatient with Chicago style), and tell him to turn it in before the website goes down. He does, sighing like his soul has just ascended.

“I can’t believe I’m done.”

“How many pages was that?” asks Courfeyrac. 

“Only ten. I’m slipping.”

“Wasn’t it a five-page minimum?”

“Yeah.”

“Good job,” Combeferre tells him, carefully laying his alien book away. “I’m proud of you, Enjolras. You’re so tired, and you don’t feel well, but you pulled through. That’s really good.”

“Way to go, champ,” adds Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras makes a sleepy noise. He slides down the couch until his feet touch the floor, and it can’t be very comfortable, but he closes his eyes like it is. “Goodnight.”

“Wait, no.” Courfeyrac takes his laptop and gets it to safety, while Combeferre pulls him back up. “You can’t sleep like that. You’ll be so stiff in the morning. Besides, you haven’t brushed your teeth yet.”

“But I want to sleep here. You guys are here.”

Courfeyrac clutches his heart. That’s one of the cutest things he’s heard all day. Enjolras can be such a little lovebug, even when sober, and it’s absolutely adorable. 

“We’ll sleep with you,” he says. “We can all sleep in my bed.”

He has an extra-big bed, bought for the express purpose of sleepovers like this (and also, threesomes, but that’s a secondary reason). The three of them have cuddled together on multiple occasions, and it’s been comfortable for them all. Enjolras seems happy with this solution, so he gets up and goes off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Combeferre follows, after taking several water bottles out of the fridge and pointedly carrying them into the bedroom. 

Left alone, Courfeyrac takes a second to stretch and yawn luxuriously. Sometimes, all he needs are days like this to get back on track. Tomorrow, he’s going to be his diligent, industrious, and extremely admirable self again, all thanks to this therapeutic weekend. Honestly, he’s so wise. There’s so much love and joy to be had in life for those who look.

Once Combeferre and Courfeyrac are all happily tucked in bed with Enjolras nestled in between them, Courfeyrac heaves a long sigh of pure contentment and relaxes back on the pillows. He’s so happy. As long as he has his friends with him, he knows he can do anything. As if to echo this sentiment, Enjolras turns over and holds his sleeve.

“Thank you. I really do feel better now.”

“I’m so glad.”

“I love you both,” continues Enjolras. “I know I probably said that a lot last night, but I’m not drunk now, so I have to say it again. I’m the luckiest person, because I have you guys in my life. Thank you for always being there for me! Let’s have lots more adventures, okay?”

“Of course,” says Courfeyrac, and Combeferre hums his agreement. 

“That goes without saying.”

“I’m saying it, though,” says Enjolras in typical Enjolras fashion. “I love you, and I’m so happy. And tired. But really happy.”

Combeferre laughs at him kindly. “Go to sleep. We’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Mm. ‘Kay, g’night.”

“Goodnight, Enjolras.”

It takes only a few minutes, and he’s deep in slumber. He must be really worn out. Honestly, that’s a good thing, because he’s been so overworked and stressed lately, not to mention sad, and if nothing else, his residual hangover will ensure that he gets some rest. Courfeyrac’s not drunk, but the rush of affection he feels is so heartfelt that he may as well be. He shifts closer and wraps his arms around Enjolras, laughing slightly when he bumps Combeferre, who’s apparently had the same idea.

“I see you’re being an octopus, too.”

“It’s the way to live.”

The dark hides Courfeyrac’s face, but he knows the smile is audible in his voice when he says, “I love you both, too, by the way.”

“I know. Me too.” 

Combeferre’s also smiling. Courfeyrac can tell. He closes his eyes, so full of contentment that he can’t stay awake anymore.

“Goodnight,” he says. “I’ll make us coffee tomorrow.”

Combeferre snorts, and probably makes some witticism, but Courfeyrac can’t tell. He’s already dreaming of happiness, just like heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://synchronysymphony.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> all of the things that Enjolras does are things that I did  
> except be a lightweight ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> it was a weird time, let me tell ya


End file.
